Chapter Text
Harry felt an emptiness inside him that nothing seemed able to fill.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Cedric’s stare - lifeless, fixed on nothing. They had both agreed to share the victory. Yet in the end Cedric had lost far more, and Harry carried a guilt that threatened to suffocate him a little more with every passing day.
Sleep rarely came anymore. Nightmares chased him with such intensity that he woke screaming almost every night. After the seventh night in a row, his uncle had stopped threatening him. Instead, Vernon had settled for the occasional hard slap that left Harry’s ears ringing.
After that, sleep was impossible anyway.
Fear closed around his throat every time he tried.
His summer holidays had become nothing more than an endless list of chores, longing for letters that never came, and staring blankly into nothing. Without friends or freedom, there was hardly any reason left to enjoy anything at all.
Harry had tried sending letters with Hedwig. But after she returned three times without a single reply - looking strangely disappointed and almost sympathetic - he had stopped trying.
He didn’t understand why they had cut him off. Why no one checked on him. Why no one sent even the smallest message.
He hadn’t done anything wrong.
…Well.
That wasn’t entirely true.
Cedric had died because of him.
Voldemort had returned because of him.
Harry pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, burying his face against them. A dry breath escaped him, sounding far too much like a broken sob.
The summer holidays were almost over now.
Seven weeks of silence. Seven weeks of isolation.
Seven weeks in which his relatives used him like a house-elf - only punished him far worse.
During those seven weeks he had received food perhaps once every three days. Two or three times a week his aunt threw something at him as if he were a dog.
A dry slice of bread.
Old cornflakes so stale and rancid that not even Dudley wanted them.
If she felt generous, there might be an apple - usually with brown spots.
Leftovers from dinner were rare. Dudley and Vernon devoured everything like starving animals. Harry was allowed to cook, but never for himself. And even more rarely was he allowed to eat what remained.
After the third week, Harry stopped looking into mirrors.
He knew what he would see.
Hollow cheeks. Lost weight. Hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.
If he moved too quickly, the world tilted. More than once he had already thrown up.
It wasn’t healthy.
But what could he do?
He had grown used to the idea that no one loved him.
That no one wanted him.
No one ever had.
Sirius’ face appeared in his thoughts.
His laughter was like balm, and when Harry remembered the warm hugs his godfather gave him, he could almost feel peace for a moment.
Until it all came crashing down again.
Cedric’s lifeless eyes.
Voldemort’s mad laughter.
The graveyard.
The fight he still didn’t understand how he had survived.
Harry jerked upright when Hedwig slipped into the room with a quiet sound.
She had learned to move silently in this house. She was not welcome here - certainly not by the Dursleys - and Harry didn’t want to imagine what would happen if they ever got their hands on her.
His beautiful, loyal friend.
The one being who had never abandoned him.
Unlike Ron.
Or Hermione.
Harry didn’t want to think that way.
Not about his best friends.
But it was hard.
It hurt.
The pain tore another hole in his chest beside the constant ache of hunger.
Hedwig nipped his finger sharply, dragging him out of the spiral of his thoughts. Harry gently stroked her chest feathers before noticing the letter tied to her leg.
It was from Hogwarts.
His fingers trembled as he tore it open - only for a quiet breath of disappointment to leave him.
It was only the supply list for the coming school year.
He would have to go to Diagon Alley - or let the Weasleys buy everything again, since Mrs Weasley still had the key to his vault.
He didn’t like that idea.
But what could he really say?
He had turned fifteen barely two weeks ago and-
His thoughts stopped.
Harry blinked slowly.
His birthday.
He glanced at the battered calendar sitting on his dresser - one he had rescued from Dudley’s rubbish because his cousin had declared it “uncool.”
10 August 1995.
The realization hit him like ice down the back of his neck.
He hadn’t even noticed how quickly time had passed. His days had been filled with work, grief and nightmares until the whole of July and half of August had slipped by unnoticed.
His birthday had been on the thirty-first of July.
And none of his friends had sent even a card.
No gifts - though he hadn’t expected any.
No letter.
No congratulations.
Not even from Sirius.
Harry bit down on his lower lip so hard the cracked skin split open, blood running down his chin.
He didn’t notice.
The pain in his chest was far worse.
The tears came suddenly, unstoppable. They streamed down his face, mixing with the blood from his lip. The salt burned the wound.
He didn’t care.
Nothing mattered anymore.
✦∴✦
Two days later, Harry pulled the hood of Dudley’s old sweatshirt over his head.
It was far too big - at least four sizes too large - but it hid his face well enough.
After two days of crying and drowning in self-pity, he wanted to do something at least vaguely productive.
He would buy his school supplies.
He would try to have a good day.
A day good enough that he wouldn’t think about Ron.
Or Hermione.
Or Sirius.
Or Dumbledore.
When he entered Diagon Alley behind an elderly couple, he almost turned around again immediately.
The noise hit him like a wall.
Laughing children. Shouting voices. Groups talking loudly over one another. Somewhere people were actually yelling across the street to be heard.
It was too much.
But he refused to go back.
He refused to be a coward.
Harry stayed close to the edges of the street, slipping through darker alleys whenever possible. He didn’t care if it made him look suspicious - anything was better than the crowds.
He wanted to walk quickly.
But his body wouldn’t allow it.
That morning he had only managed to grab an old apple before Aunt Petunia woke up. He had slipped out of the house before anyone noticed.
He would find something else to eat later.
Harry stopped for a moment while the crowd flowed around him. He forced himself to breathe slowly.
Diagon Alley was chaos - a tide of moving bodies that barely noticed each other. Harry felt like a lost child searching for parents who would never come.
Except he had no parents.
No one to go to.
Bile rose in his throat, bitter and burning, but he swallowed it down and kept walking.
First he needed money.
✦∴✦
Gringotts rose before him like a monument.
The great white marble building gleamed in the sunlight, flawless and perfectly smooth. There were no cracks, no stains, not a single stone out of place. It was both intimidating and awe-inspiring.
The wide steps should have left plenty of space for people to move around one another, but the crowd pressed in so tightly that Harry nearly stumbled down them twice before reaching the enormous doors.
Carved above the entrance, in shining golden letters, was the poem he remembered from his first visit.
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed…
Harry didn’t read the rest.
The first time he had come here with Hagrid, everything had felt new and exciting. Magic had opened a door into a world larger than the cupboard under the stairs that had once been his bedroom - and still served as his punishment room now.
Harry quickly shook his head before the memories could drag him under again.
A sour-faced goblin stood beside the doors, opening them for witches and wizards who barely spared him a glance. He wore a perfectly tailored dark suit without a single wrinkle or speck of dust. Rings engraved with runes Harry didn’t recognise decorated his long fingers, and silver cufflinks bore the seal of Gringotts.
The goblin looked immaculate.
Important.
Harry, standing beside him, felt small. Dirty. Insignificant.
As Harry passed him, the goblin’s dark eyes swept over his miserable appearance. Harry attempted a polite nod, but when the goblin raised one eyebrow in what looked like faint disapproval, Harry ducked his head and hurried inside.
I can’t even do something like that right…
The thought tasted bitter.
Inside the wizarding bank, it felt as though someone had forced calm into the chaos of Diagon Alley.
The floor was polished stone — spotless and gleaming. Even the conversations seemed oddly muted, as if softened by magic.
Goblins were everywhere.
Like the one at the entrance, they were all elegantly dressed. Some sat behind very tall counters that rose far above the heads of witches and wizards. Others wrote on long scrolls of parchment with beautiful quills or counted piles of coins whose soft clinking echoed through the vast hall like distant music.
The ceiling soared high above.
Harry was suddenly reminded of the first time Aunt Petunia had dragged him to church when he was eight years old, because people had begun whispering about why her nephew was never seen at family events.
That church ceiling had seemed enormous back then.
But it was nothing compared to Gringotts.
A massive chandelier hung from above, its many lights illuminating the hall below. It was so large Harry couldn’t even find something to compare it to.
The first time he had come here, he had been with Hagrid.
The second time, with Mrs Weasley.
Now he was alone.
The pressure and stress pressed against him like invisible hands trying to crush him. Harry felt the familiar edge of panic creeping in. His breathing quickened.
He dug the fingernails of his right hand into his left forearm.
The sharp sting of pain pushed the panic back.
Not perfect.
But better.
Harry’s legs trembled as he slowly approached one of the high counters.
A dark-skinned wizard in elegant robes stood in front of him, clutching a briefcase and shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. The older wizard tossed a key onto the counter with casual disregard and demanded information in a cold, irritated tone.
Harry couldn’t hear exactly what they were discussing, but the goblin’s expression turned icy.
After a few tense minutes, the wizard snatched his key back with an annoyed motion and hurried away as if something were chasing him.
Only when the man was far enough away did Harry step forward.
He waited until the goblin finally noticed him.
Sharp blue eyes looked down at him after what felt like five endless minutes.
Harry cleared his throat.
It took two attempts before his voice came out — thin and far too young.
“I’d like to… withdraw some money, please?”
“Key?”
Harry blinked.
The goblin extended his hand impatiently.
Key.
Oh no.
He must mean the key to Harry’s vault.
The key Harry had never actually held in his life. The one he had only learned existed when he turned eleven - and which Mrs Weasley had kept ever since.
“I-I’m sorry… I… I don’t have it with me.”
His voice faded at the end, and a lump formed painfully in his throat.
So much for having a decent day.
He was already preparing himself to return to the Dursleys empty-handed.
“Then I require your hand,” the goblin said calmly, “and three drops of blood.”
Harry choked slightly in surprise as the counter suddenly lowered itself with a quiet mechanical sound.
Where the goblin had previously towered above him, they were now face to face.
“M-my blood?!”
“For identification.”
The goblin’s tone remained neutral.
Harry stretched out his hand hesitantly.
The goblin’s grip around his wrist was enormous. Harry’s hand looked almost childishly small inside it as the goblin lightly pricked the tip of his finger with a long nail.
It barely hurt.
Harry noticed the goblin’s slight frown - the same expression he saw on nearly everyone who touched him.
Disgust.
Disapproval.
Reluctance.
People never liked touching him.
And when he remembered how Professor Quirrell had crumbled into dust beneath his hands during his first year…
Well.
He understood.
It just hurt.
The goblin held his wrist a moment longer than necessary.
His pupils narrowed ever so slightly.
“Your vital signs are… sufficient.”
No judgement.
No concern.
Just a statement.
Harry nodded quickly, as though he had just passed a test he hadn’t known he was taking.
The goblin allowed the drops of blood to fall onto a silver plate. Strange runes flared briefly across its surface — symbols Harry didn’t recognise but somehow felt were important.
Important for him.
The goblin studied the runes carefully.
Then he looked back up.
“Heir Potter,” he said, his voice quieter now.
Harry swallowed.
No one had ever addressed him like that before.
Not like a title.
Like a fact.
It almost sounded like respect.
Which was ridiculous.
No one respected him.
Certainly not a goblin who was far more powerful - and far better dressed - than he was.
“Your signature is active,” the goblin continued.
“Stable.”
Harry blinked.
“Is… that bad?”
For a brief moment the goblin’s lips twitched.
“Stability is rare… with your burden.”
He said nothing more.
Harry didn’t dare ask
✦∴✦
An hour later, Harry left with a small pouch full of Galleons.
He had no idea how much he actually needed, so he had simply taken two handfuls. It seemed reasonable enough. After all, there was still plenty left in the vault.
How much, exactly, he had no idea.
He had never had the time to count it. Not during the school year, and not during the holidays either.
He would just have to be careful with it.
When he climbed back into the cart that would bring him up again, the goblin guiding it watched him with curious, almost knowing eyes.
And just before Harry stepped out, the goblin spoke.
“Your inheritance is… more extensive than you realize.”
Harry didn’t ask what that meant.
After the goblin at the counter had already left him with more questions than answers, he didn’t dare give his curiosity room to breathe now.
Uncle Vernon had always complained that Harry’s curiosity was an unpleasant flaw, while Aunt Petunia twisted her face in disgust every time he asked too many questions.
Eventually, Harry had simply stopped asking.
Back in Diagon Alley, Harry made sure his hood was still pulled low over his face.
He hid the money pouch inside his sleeve and pulled out the Hogwarts letter again to check what supplies he still needed.
The next two hours passed in a blur as he moved quietly from shop to shop.
A new cauldron.
Fresh quills and parchment.
Ink.
And several potion ingredients Harry had absolutely no idea how to use.
At one small stand he bought a scone and a cup of hot chocolate. He devoured both with a desperate hunger he regretted barely twenty minutes later.
His body wasn’t used to that kind of food anymore.
His stomach cramped painfully, and he fought the urge to throw everything up.
Who knew when he would get food again.
Still, the brief warmth of it softened his mood slightly.
Checking the letter again, he realized there was only one last stop left.
Books.
Flourish and Blotts.
He knew the shop well from his first visit to Diagon Alley. Hermione loved this place. You could find nearly every book on magical theory, curses, or spells there - not to mention all the textbooks Hogwarts required.
When he stepped inside, the noise nearly overwhelmed him.
People talked over one another loudly, voices rising above the chaos. Harry had no idea how anyone managed to understand each other. He could barely hear his own thoughts.
Still, he moved quickly through the shelves, stacking each required book from the list in his arms.
When he reached the counter, he paid as quickly as possible.
He ducked his head when the witch behind the register tried to look at his face, almost threw the coins at her, and left the change behind.
No one should notice him.
But just as he was about to leave the shop, he heard a familiar laugh.
A laugh that had followed him through the last four school years.
A laugh he had missed more than he wanted to admit.
Harry’s body reacted instantly.
He slipped behind a tall shelf and a group of customers just as Mrs Weasley entered the shop with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.
They all looked happy.
Ron was grinning at something his sister had said, while Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile.
Harry’s stomach turned into a black hole.
The cramps vanished, replaced by a dull ache in his chest that made his knees feel weak.
None of them noticed him.
Mrs Weasley began checking the book list with Ginny, pulling volumes from the shelves. Ron had apparently found a Quidditch book and was proudly showing it to Hermione.
She nodded absentmindedly, still absorbed in the book she had already opened.
Harry edged a little closer.
Not close enough to be seen.
But close enough to hear.
“Should we bring that for Harry?” Hermione asked.
For a moment, hope flickered weakly in Harry’s chest.
Then Ron answered.
“Why? He can buy it himself. He’s got plenty of money.”
The warmth vanished instantly.
Cold spread through Harry so quickly it felt like a Dementor had wrapped its arms around him.
Hermione only rolled her eyes.
That was the moment Harry turned away.
He didn’t need to hear anything else.
His friends thought of him - just not in the same way he thought of them.
They didn’t miss him.
They didn’t worry about him.
Ron’s laughter echoed behind him as he left the shop.
At least, that’s what it felt like.
Harry walked blindly through Diagon Alley, barely noticing the people bumping into him.
Voices called after him, irritated or annoyed, but he didn’t respond.
The world around him faded into meaningless noise.
The truth crashed over him like an avalanche of ice.
His friends - the people he trusted more than anyone - saw the same thing everyone else saw.
A rich boy.
The Boy Who Lived.
A walking weapon against Voldemort.
He had money.
Why would he care about presents?
About letters?
About being alone?
Harry was used to being alone.
A tear rolled down his cheek.
He wiped it away angrily and rubbed his face until it hurt.
His nerves screamed.
His heart screamed.
He wanted to scream.
Because the truth was simple.
He would have loved any gift.
Even a stupid card.
A photograph.
Cheap chocolate.
Anything.
Because it would have meant he hadn’t been forgotten.
Because it would have meant he wasn’t alone.
Why? He can buy it himself. He’s got plenty of money.
Money.
Always money.
Harry understood that money mattered. He knew Ron could be jealous of it.
But Harry had never acted like it mattered to him.
He would have shared everything.
Everything.
If his friends had just thought of him.
The silence around him only became noticeable when a broken laugh escaped his throat.
The sound echoed strangely.
Harry blinked.
At some point he had turned into a narrow side alley. The crowds were gone. The street was empty and dim, several windows boarded shut. The place felt abandoned.
Forgotten.
Like him.
It wasn’t exactly dirty - just neglected, as if no one cared enough to maintain it properly anymore.
Harry turned to leave. Then he noticed the shop.
Eldritch & Fallow - Arcane Curiosities
The golden letters on the crooked sign had begun to peel.
The window was dusty around the edges, but strange objects were still visible inside.
Crooked clocks. Broken toys. Shattered glass that somehow looked… intentional.
Before he could stop himself, Harry stepped inside.
A small bell above the door rang with a dull, cracked sound.
Then silence returned.
Clocks ticked quietly. Somewhere sand trickled through glass. Everything in the shop felt forgotten. Out of place.
Harry couldn’t help but feel like he belonged here.
The thought was a strange comfort.
He wandered slowly between the narrow shelves.
He didn’t want to think about Ron or Hermione. Or Sirius, who had probably forgotten him. Or Dumbledore, who had ignored his fear and desperation at the end of the school year.
Still, the questions crept in.
Would it have been like this everywhere?
Would everyone have turned their backs on him?
The Sorting Hat had wanted to place him in Slytherin once.
The house that had produced his parents’ murderer.
The house Draco Malfoy belonged to - arrogant, lying, insufferable Draco Malfoy.
But…
Would Draco have betrayed him?
Ignored him all summer?
Turned his back on him?
Harry’s thoughts drifted in a haze of doubt and pain as he absentmindedly brushed his fingers over the objects on the shelves.
The aisles were so narrow that no one could walk beside him.
The air was still. Dust floated slowly in the dim light.
When his hand brushed something cold, he looked down. A mirror.
Rectangular and slightly smaller than one of the schoolbooks he had bought earlier. Beside it lay a yellowed card, its edges browned with age.
The handwriting was faded and difficult to read. It took Harry three attempts before he could decipher it.
Speculum Possibilitatis
One question only.
For those willing to bear the answer.
Harry frowned and picked the mirror up. It was heavier than expected.
The frame was rough beneath his fingers. And the reflection…
It was wrong.
When Harry blinked, his reflection blinked a moment later. The image looked darker somehow, faint and distorted.
When he turned the mirror over, faint runes shimmered along the dark wooden frame. He wasn’t good at Ancient Runes. He couldn’t read them.
But the word Possibilitatis caught his attention.
The mirror seemed to call to him. He wanted it.
There was no price listed anywhere.
Harry shrugged. He had gold and he would risk it.
When he reached the counter, the shop owner appeared as if summoned.
Thin grey hair, sunken dark eyes. A face carved deeply by age.
A large mole marked his right cheek, and his mouth seemed permanently turned downward.
Neither of them seemed interested in conversation. Harry placed the mirror on the counter silently.
His hood still hid most of his face.
“Four Galleons.”
No greeting. No small talk.
Harry swallowed and dug through his pouch.
He had no idea if that was expensive. No idea if he was being cheated.
And he didn’t care. He wanted the mirror. He wanted the possibility.
The man took the coins and slid the mirror back across the counter.
Harry gave a small nod of thanks and hurried toward the door.
The cracked bell rang again as he stepped outside.
Just before the door closed completely, the old man spoke.
“Goodbye, Mister Potter.”
A chill ran down Harry’s spine.
He almost turned back to ask how the man had recognized him. What had given him away, but he was afraid of the answer.
Because it would mean that a complete stranger had noticed him…
when his friends hadn’t.
✦∴✦
Back at Privet Drive, Uncle Vernon slapped him once and sent him upstairs without dinner. Harry ended up in Dudley’s second bedroom - not that he had one of his own.
Thankfully he had kept the scone down earlier. He still felt hungry, but the sharp pain hadn’t started yet. That would probably come tomorrow.
The sun was setting when Harry sat down on the creaking bed and pulled the mirror from his bag.
His books were already packed away in his trunk.
He felt ready to leave at any moment - like every summer.
Harry turned the mirror slowly in his hands, tracing the runes with his fingertips.
Then he looked again at the small card.
Speculum Possibilitatis
One question only.
For those willing to bear the answer.
“One question…” Harry murmured. He tapped the glass with his fingernail and chewed on his lower lip. “What if… people hadn’t turned their backs on me?”
The mirror flickered faintly, the surface blurred, as if a scene was trying to form, but nothing became clear. When Harry turned the mirror again, the runes only glowed weakly.
Maybe the question had been too vague. Harry hesitated.
Then he looked into his distorted reflection.
Even through the warped glass he could see his uncertainty.
His fear. Fear of a possibility he might not be ready for.
“What if… I had been sorted into Slytherin?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And what if… the Goblet had still chosen my name?”
The mirror flickered again, but this time, a scene began to form.
And for the first time…
Harry wished it were real.